


You Had Me At Aloe

by boasamishipper



Category: Top Gun (1986), Top Gun: Maverick (2020)
Genre: 2020s, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Hero Worship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Memes, Old Married Couple, Plants, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Sickfic, Top Gun: Maverick Speculation, pre bradley/fritz/phoenix, thank u cain and the tg discord for enabling me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boasamishipper/pseuds/boasamishipper
Summary: Truth be told, part of Fritz envies Bradley for having had a dad, at least for a short time. For having any male role models in his life at all. He’s got his moms and his sisters, of course, and he loves them more than anything, but he never once had a guy to look out for him and teach him about the world. Never had a man to go fishing with on Father’s Day, never had a man teach him how to surf or shave or which cologne to buy, never hit the same milestones the same way as any of the other guys in Jacksonville.Uncle Mav and Uncle Ice, though. Fucking wild.
Relationships: Bradley Bradshaw & Fritz (Top Gun: Maverick), Bradley Bradshaw/Phoenix (Top Gun: Maverick), Fritz (Top Gun: Maverick) & Phoenix (Top Gun: Maverick), Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	You Had Me At Aloe

“TOPGUN.”

“I know, man.”

“Fucking TOPGUN, Bradshaw. We’re going to _TOPGUN.”_

“Technically we’re already _at_ TOPGUN,” Bradley says, grinning. They’ve been standing outside the main building for the last twenty minutes, Fritz unable to tear his gaze away from the sign. He already took four different selfies with it, one with Bradley, and sent it to every group chat he’s part of. “Were you one of those kids who got weirdly excited about the first day of school, Fritz? Bought all the cool Trapper Keepers and scented erasers?”

“Were you _not?”_ Fritz says, appalled. “Anyway, this is way better than the first day of school. It’s the first day of the rest of our fucking _lives,_ bro.” He slings an arm around Bradley’s shoulders, tousles Bradley’s carefully windswept hair, and lets out a sigh that his oldest sister would probably classify as dreamy as they finally enter the building. He can hear the orchestra music dramatically swelling already. “Can you believe we’re literally going to be learning from the best of the best? Actual living legends.”

Bradley smirks. “You’re not going to faint when they introduce themselves, are you?”

“I’m a consummate professional, don’t you worry about me.” Fritz checks his reflection in one of the windows, and then makes sure he doesn’t have anything stuck in his teeth. Old habits die hard, as his moms would say. “I heard Admiral Kazansky once did a hop and got a radar lock on half the students with his eyes shut.”

“I…do not think that’s true.”

“Could be. _And_ I heard he and Captain Mitchell shot down like, eight MiGs each over the Indian Ocean before they could blow up the USS Layton.”

“Pretty sure it was four total,” Bradley says nonchalantly, and Fritz rolls his eyes. “I heard Captain Mitchell once flipped off a MiG-28 while his plane was inverted.”

Fritz frowns. “Sounds fake, but okay.”

Bradley snorts.

The lounge is crowded with students — some of whom Fritz recognizes from Pensacola and previous assignments, all of whom look like they could blow him and Bradley out of the sky without even twitching a finger. They don’t have much time for introductions before an admiral comes into the room and the lights dim for his Powerpoint presentation, but Fritz catches Bradley sneaking looks at Monica Valdez (Phoenix, now), who’s sitting in the row across from them with a guy who looks like Radar O’Reilly’s stunt double. He’ll tease Bradley about those heart eyes of his later, as soon as he manages to stop vibrating in his own seat and twisting around to see if he can spot his heroes anywhere. 

“Our commanding officer here is one of the finest pilots this program has ever produced,” Vice Admiral Benjamin, callsign Cyclone, is saying. He’s well-groomed, muscular, every strand of hair in its proper place. Fritz thinks he looks like a corporate banker in cosplay. “His reputation precedes him. And his exploits…” He pauses for dramatic effect. Fritz almost whimpers. “Are legendary. You won’t find a finer fighter pilot anywhere.” He grimaces for a second, like he smelled something terrible. “Captain Pete Mitchell. Callsign Maverick.”

The lights flick back on, and Fritz feels like he’s ascending out of his own body when Captain Maverick Mitchell strolls up the aisle — Jesus, even the way he _walks_ makes him look confident — and turns to face them. He looks serious for about a minute as he surveys them from behind his mirrored aviators, and then grins brightly after he takes his sunglasses off, tucks them into the collar of his uniform. “Lieutenants,” he says, still smiling. Fritz’s heart seizes in his chest when Captain Mitchell’s gaze lands briefly on him and Bradley. “You’re here because you’re the top one percent of all naval aviators. The elite. The best of the best.” His green eyes gleam. “We’ll make you better.”

Fritz squeaks.

Everyone turns to stare at him, even Bradley. Fritz tries to pass it off as a cough, with minimal success. He’s pretty sure Phoenix is stifling a laugh at his expense right now.

The rest of Captain Mitchell’s speech is pretty straightforward — not that Fritz pays all that much attention. He’s too busy staring and pretending he isn’t, trying to match the (very handsome) face to all the stories he’s heard. He’s in his mid-fifties, maybe, with some specks of gray in his dark hair; _definitely_ still young enough to have a few more legendary exploits in him. Take that, Cyclone.

“My husband, Vice Admiral Kazansky, would normally be up here with me,” Captain Mitchell is saying, and Fritz immediately tunes back in, “but he got called to DC at the last minute. Pentagon business, you know how it is.” Fritz’s shoulders slump. “Anyway, he’ll be back in a few weeks — and you’ll have me and Vice Admiral Benjamin here to impress in the meantime.”

Vice Admiral Benjamin does not look very willing to be impressed. That’s fine. Fritz has always liked a challenge.

Captain Mitchell dismisses them after that, and the room empties in twos and threes, all of the pilots stopping to admire the plaques hanging on the wall in the back. Fritz stops in front of it, and basks in the glow of the thought of his and Bradley’s names on there in eight weeks’ time: Lt. Bradley Travis “Rooster” Bradshaw and Lt. Nicholas Nathaniel “Fritz” Mendoza. It doesn’t have the same ring as Lt. Thomas James “Iceman” Kazansky and LTJG Ronald Richard “Slider” Kerner, but Fritz likes the sound of it anyway.

Bradley elbows Fritz in the side, and Fritz’s entire life flashes before his eyes when he sees who’s approaching them. Should he salute? Bow? Curtsy? Jump out of the way and apologize for daring to breathe Captain Mitchell’s air? 

Bradley just grins. “Hey, Uncle Mav.”

Captain Mitchell grins back, no hint of distant politeness anywhere, and uses Bradley’s outstretched hand to pull him into a quick hug. “Hey, little buddy, what’s the 411?”

 _“Whaaat,”_ Fritz says, but neither Bradley nor Captain Mitchell seem to hear him. 

“Nice speech up there. Hey, since when does Uncle Ice help out the Pentagon?”

“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Captain Mitchell says with a wink. A _wink._ Jesus H. tap dancing Christ. “Ice was pissed he had to go on this short of notice, but he’ll be back in time to see you fly. Gotta say, I’m looking forward to that myself.”

“We’ll give you a good show,” Bradley promises. Fritz makes a strange sort of croaking noise that the soul who had once possessed his body had intended to be a noise of agreement, and Bradley claps Fritz on the back. “Captain Mitchell, Lieutenant Fritz Mendoza.”

“Good to finally put a face to the name, Lieutenant,” Captain Mitchell says with a smile, which means that he’s heard of Fritz before, probably because Bradley’s talked about him, because Bradley called Captain Mitchell _Uncle Mav_ and Captain Mitchell’s married to Admiral Kazansky who Bradley called _Uncle Ice,_ and _that_ means—

Bradley clears his throat, and Fritz does his best to smile like a person who is Definitely Not Having A Mild Existential Crisis and also shove his gaping eyes back into their sockets. “Ditto, sir.”

 _DITTO,_ wails his brain. _DITTO?! EVERY WORD IN THE WORLD AT YOUR DISPOSAL AND YOU TOLD YOUR HERO_ **_DITTO?!_ **

“I’ll tell Mom you say hey,” Bradley is saying. His arm is around Fritz’s shoulders now. Good. Maybe that means they’ll be getting out of here soon, and he’ll have the time to take a running leap into oncoming traffic. “Give the MiGs a pet from me.”

“Will do,” Captain Mitchell says, and slides his sunglasses back on. Gives Bradley a secretive smile. “Good luck, gentlemen.”

“Thank you, sir,” Fritz croaks, and then Captain Mitchell smiles at _him_ before walking out the door himself. 

Bradley grins sheepishly at him. “Surprise?”

* * *

_“UNCLE MAV.”_

“I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

“Captain Mitchell and Admiral Kazansky are _YOUR UNCLES_ and you didn’t _TELL ME?!”_ Fritz waves his arms for emphasis like he’s conducting air traffic; everyone in the bar turns to stare at them. Bradley looks pretty exasperated, but Phoenix’s amusement is undeniable, even on the other side of the bar counter. Penny, the bartender, just shakes her head and sends another bottle of beer Fritz’s way. “You let me talk about them nonstop since we found out we were going here, you let me make a _scrapbook_ of their greatest hits—”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to _stop_ you—”

“Irregardless! This is — this is, like, borderline _infidelity—”_

“Oh my _God,_ Mendoza, Jesus.” Bradley buries his face in his hands. Omaha leans over to Phoenix just as Yale does the same with Radar O’Reilly the Second; all four of them burst into giggles like a bunch of sorority girls. Fritz takes a long, dramatic pull from his beer while Bradley sighs and lifts his head up. “Fritz.”

Fritz is tempted to retort _I don’t talk to traitors,_ but something in Bradley’s voice makes him dial back his petty righteousness a notch. Bradley’s tracing the label on his own beer, his eyes fixed on the table. “Yeah?”

“Remember what I told you about my dad?”

Fritz’s heart gives a sympathetic twinge. Yeah, he remembers. It was one of the first things he’d learned about Bradley, right after he’d introduced himself and Bradley’s mouth had twisted a little before he said, quiet, _Nick was my dad’s name._ “Right,” he says, quieter. Phoenix and the others are looking away now that the drama is done. “Died in the line of duty, right?”

Bradley presses his lips together. “No,” he says. “He was Navy too, a naval aviator, but…he didn’t die in the line of duty.” The unspoken _not like your father_ hangs in the air between them. “He died at TOPGUN.” 

Fritz’s stomach plummets and drowns in the molten core of the Earth. “Fuck,” he says. Three and a half weeks he’s been talking about nothing else but TOPGUN. He feels like an asshole. “I’m sorry, Bradley. I didn’t…”

“You didn’t know, man. It’s okay.” Bradley pats his hand sympathetically, which — Jesus, if anyone needs a sympathetic hand pat right now it’s _Bradley,_ but Bradley picks up his beer again before Fritz can return the favor. “Anyway, uh, Dad’s plane got caught in another pilot’s jetwash. He—” Bradley’s voice cuts out, and he just gestures. Fritz’s mind fills in the blanks. “He was Uncle Mav’s RIO.”

Shock and petty righteousness make Fritz’s spine jolt, until both feelings fade into something much heavier. “Ah.”

“Yeah.” Bradley shrugs one shoulder, as if to say _there you have it._ “Uncle Mav flew combat with Uncle Ice for a while after they both graduated. Then they came back to TOPGUN together, fell in love. Got married, like, a month after DADT got repealed. Thus, Uncle Ice.”

“Ah,” Fritz says again, quieter this time. Now he really feels like an ass. It’s one thing to never know your father — Fritz’s father died before he was born and subsequently given up for adoption — and quite another, as Fritz’s sister the English teacher would say, to have known your father, and know what you’re missing when he’s gone.

Truth be told, part of Fritz envies Bradley for having had a dad, at least for a short time. For having any male role models in his life at all. He’s got his moms and his sisters, of course, and he loves them more than anything, but he never once had a guy to look out for him and teach him about the world. Never had a man to go fishing with on Father’s Day, never had a man teach him how to surf or shave or which cologne to buy, never hit the same milestones the same way as any of the other guys in Jacksonville. 

Uncle Mav and Uncle Ice, though. Fucking wild.

“I can’t believe Captain Mitchell’s a nerd,” Fritz says at last, and Bradley bursts into laughter.

“Yeah, you get used to it.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard anyone ask what the 411 was since middle school.”

Bradley shakes his head, grinning. “He tries.”

“What’s the updated version of that, anyway? Don’t kids ask what the tea is these days?”

Bradley chokes on his beer. “I’d pay good money to see Uncle Mav ask _anyone_ what the tea is.”

 _Challenge accepted._ “Hey,” Fritz says, tapping Bradley on the shoulder. The Hard Deck piano man looks like he’s done for the night, and Phoenix has just moved to the table nearest the piano with a whiskey in one hand and her sunglasses in the other, her feet in Radar O’Reilly the Second’s lap. “You think Phoenix’s the Billy Joel type?”

Bradley tilts his head, and grins when Phoenix turns to look at them again. “Let’s see about Frankie Valli.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Fritz finishes his drink and drops a few bills on the bar counter. “Come on, Rooster, let’s get you lovebirds introduced. - Excuse me, Lieutenant!”

* * *

Phoenix, as it turns out, is more of the Madonna and Shania Twain type, which Fritz respects — especially after she out-sings Bradley and Fritz combined on _Man! I Feel Like A Woman!_ Fritz has admired Phoenix ever since NAS Pensacola, where they had a very memorable arm-wrestling contest on Flight Suit Friday while drunk off their asses, and even though she and Bob (Radar O’Reilly the Second) are giving him and Bradley a run for their money on every single hop, it’s good to have her around. _And_ it’s even better to have someone to fangirl with about Captain Mitchell and Admiral Kazansky.

“No, the MiG story’s true,” Phoenix says, matter of fact, one night at the Hard Deck. “Bob verified it for me. He’s like the CIA of the Navy, he’s got the dirt on everybody.”

“More like the _Navy_ of the Navy,” Fritz grumbles, but he’s more impressed than over it. Bradley’s still up at the counter with Bob, trying to get Penny’s attention so he can pay for their next round; Fritz can see Phoenix smiling slightly at him, and grins at her. “You got your eye on my pilot, Valdez?”

Phoenix scoffs and finishes her whiskey in one gulp in lieu of answering. At this point, Fritz has to wonder if Phoenix enjoys the thrill of the chase (and the metric fuckload of sexual tension that arises every time she and Bradley so much as look at each other) more than actually being the one to make a move. Bradley turns and winks at Phoenix, tips an imaginary hat. Cats and mice, the both of them. 

“Hey.” Fritz nudges her arm once she sets the glass down. “I’ll pay for every drink you take for the rest of your life if you ask Captain Mitchell how to ask out his nephew.”

Phoenix chokes on a handful of pretzels. “Maybe I could have before you showed him Vine. Now he’ll probably tell me to get a guitar and sing _I love you, bitch_ on the tarmac.”

Fritz cackles. He’ll gladly accept the blame for getting Captain Mitchell into Vine — far superior to whatever the kids these days are using — especially since it means Captain Mitchell definitely likes him now. After the latest hop that he and Bradley won, Captain Mitchell had smiled at Fritz and said, _Good job, Lieutenant._ And a “good job” goes a hell of a long way — _especially_ if that comment eventually gets communicated to Admiral Kazansky. “Hey, Captain Mitchell’s been married a long time now. He’s probably still got some moves.”

“Look, Captain Mitchell wooing Admiral Kazansky is different from what I’m — anyway, it’s completely different. They graduated TOPGUN together, they both knew Bradley’s father, they taught together and flew together and trusted each other before any of the wooing really got started. _And,”_ Phoenix says, with the air of settling things once and for all, “they were wingmen.”

“Oh my God.” Fritz’s eyes go wide. _“They were wingmen.”_

Phoenix rolls her eyes, somewhat fondly. “Anyway,” she says, and grins. “Until Bobby and I win and I don’t have to worry about getting distracted or the ethics of seducing the enemy,” Fritz rolls his eyes, “I’m just fine with the game we’re playing right now.”

“What game are you playing?” Bradley asks, plopping down into the seat between Fritz and Phoenix with a tray of their drinks balanced on his hand. Bob’s approaching with Payback and Fanboy in tow, each with their own beer.

“Fuck, marry, kill,” Phoenix says smoothly, taking a sip of her scotch as the others pull up more chairs and join them. Fritz isn’t surprised by the incoming company; he’s more surprised that their table hasn’t been swamped with people sooner. Between Bradley’s Texan charm and piano skills and Phoenix’s quiet charisma, they’re the life of the party when they want to be. Everybody likes them. “Cyclone, Warlock, Commander Coleman.”

 _“Fuck_ Cyclone,” Fritz says, with apparently a little too much enthusiasm. Fanboy starts laughing, and Fritz goes red. “No, fuck, shut up Alvarez — I meant fuck him as in _fuck_ that guy. He’s a douche.”

“I heard he made Hangman cry after that last hop today,” Payback says, and Fritz startles. He wasn’t even aware Hangman had tear ducts. “What’s his problem with Captain Mitchell, anyway?”

“Who, Hangman?” Bradley asks, and Fanboy shakes his head.

“Nah, Cyclone. Fitch here heard them having an argument after the Hangman thing. Cyclone kept saying some shit about how Captain Mitchell wasn’t being hard enough on him.”

“Douchebag.” Bradley scowls. “He needs to loosen up. Maybe get that F-18 sized stick out of his ass.”

“Maybe we can put some ether in his aftershave,” Fritz says, only half kidding, which draws a resounding _here here_ from the gathered crowd. “Warlock likes Captain Mitchell, he’d probably be up to helping us out.”

“Put your money where your mouth is, Fritzie, and we’ll be glad to help you convince him,” Phoenix says.

“Don’t you think I won’t, Valdez. Come on, your turn. FMK.”

* * *

Cyclone doesn’t get his way on the Hangman problem. Unfortunately for Fritz and the rest of the students, Cyclone’s anger is very visibly simmering beneath the surface every time he teaches their class, grades their exams and flight performances, and worse, every time he talks to Captain Mitchell. And now — according to Bob — Captain Mitchell’s been staying at work later and later every night because Cyclone isn’t doing his share, and the dark circles under his eyes are growing bigger. On Friday, Captain Mitchell’s skin is noticeably paler than normal, he keeps his sunglasses on all day, and he doesn’t even start class by asking what the tea is.

To say Fritz is worried would be an understatement.

“Should we make him soup? Or a sandwich? Maybe both, do you think both are okay or too much, or should we just do UberEats and hope for the best? Where does he live?”

“Fritz.” Bradley grabs the phone out of his hand before he can look through the UberEats menu again. “Listen. He’ll get some sleep this weekend, catch up on his paperwork, make his own soup, and he’ll be back to normal by the time Monday comes around. He’s been working hard. It’s probably just a cold.”

Fritz isn’t sure if Bradley is trying to reassure himself or reassure Fritz. Either way, Fritz reluctantly lets it go, and manages to put it out of his head that night at The Hard Deck, where they all bandy around ideas to put Cyclone out of commission. Hangman’s wry comment about keying his Corvette definitely has some merit.

Monday morning comes around, marking the official start of the third week of the session. Fritz is mildly hungover from the night before, but he’s in better shape than Bradley, who puts his sunglasses on the second he leaves his house and rests his head against the cool metal of his and Fritz’s table the second they get to Captain Mitchell’s classroom. Phoenix is perfectly put together, as usual, and Hangman (who did three more shots than Fritz) looks like he strolled straight off the cover of _GQ: TOPGUN Edition._ Fritz hates them both.

It’s not until Omaha and Yale and Coyote have finally filed in that Fritz realizes something’s off, and it’s not until three minutes past eight that everyone else seems to come to the same conclusion.

“You know,” Hangman says, ten minutes after eight with still no sign of Captain Mitchell. “If he’s not here in five minutes we can all go home.”

Fritz is too worried to laugh, and from the look on Bradley’s face, so is his pilot. Captain Mitchell’s _never_ late. He even gets here before Bob some days, and Fritz isn’t entirely convinced that Bob doesn’t actually just camp out in the halls at night. (Phoenix has neither confirmed nor denied that theory.) 

At a quarter past, Phoenix stands up, instantly and easily commanding everyone’s attention. “Alright,” she says, and Fritz straightens up in his seat. “I saw his motorcycle here this morning, so Captain Mitchell’s in the building somewhere. Hangman, Coyote, you two go ask Admiral Carlin if he’s seen him. Payback, Fanboy, you ask Commander Coleman. Rooster, Fritz, Bob, you come with me, and we’ll check his office. The rest of you stay here in case he comes back early.”

The plan is more _find seven year old lost at the mall_ than _find our fifty-eight year old commanding officer,_ but Fritz admires Phoenix for having the guts to take charge at all.

Bradley gets to his feet and snaps a salute. “Yes ma’am.”

The crowd splits up — Fritz would make a Scooby Doo reference if he weren’t inwardly panicking, and Jesus, is this what his mothers felt like when he got lost at the beach when he was nine? — and Fritz finds himself jogging after Phoenix as she leads the way to Captain Mitchell’s office. He’s been in here a couple of times with Bradley for their weekly evaluations, and once to show Captain Mitchell where to find the best Vine compilations on YouTube, but never without Captain Mitchell’s permission. He feels like a peeping tom.

Phoenix lifts her hand to knock, but Bradley beats her to the punch. “Captain Mitchell?”

The door turns out to be unlocked, and Bradley pushes it open. The blinds are all the way down, and a leather jacket has been flung on the futon shoved in the corner, and Captain Mitchell’s dead asleep at his desk, his head buried in his arms. All the worry leaves Fritz in a rush of air, only to steadily creep in when Captain Mitchell doesn’t stir.

“Captain Mitchell?” Phoenix whispers. Her voice catches; she crosses the room in about three steps and hesitantly touches his shoulder. Fritz is frozen where he stands. “Captain Mitchell? Sir?”

Captain Mitchell makes a tiny, bleary noise at the touch, but doesn’t wake up. Fritz can physically feel his blood pressure skyrocketing beneath his skin.

Bradley moves to Captain Mitchell’s other side, crouching down, puts his (imperceptibly shaking) hand on Captain Mitchell’s arm, then higher up on his wrist. “Uncle Mav?” he tries. “C’mon, Uncle Mav, wake up.”

Fritz inches forward just in time to see Captain Mitchell lift his head, squinting at Bradley. His skin is pale gray, his forehead shiny with sweat, but he manages to force out a hoarse, “Goose?”

Bradley’s tentative smile is wiped right off his face. Fritz wonders if this is what it feels like to have a heart attack.

“Bobby, get the doctor,” Phoenix orders, and Bob almost knocks down Fritz in his haste to get out the door. “Fritz, c’mere, help us get him to the couch…”

Fritz snaps out of his trance and immediately moves to Bradley’s side, helping him lift Captain Mitchell to his feet. Luckily Captain Mitchell’s shorter than all three of them, but Fritz has never seen him look this _small_ before, especially when they get him onto the futon and he’s nearly dwarfed by the decorative throw pillows. 

Bradley holds the back of his hand to Captain Mitchell’s forehead, cursing slightly. “He’s way too hot. Fuck.”

“Thanks,” mumbles Captain Mitchell, but none of them pay attention.

“I didn’t think he was that sick,” Bradley whispers, looking terrified. His shoulders are trembling now. Tears are in his eyes. “I would have — I texted him Saturday and he said he was _fine,_ I don’t—”

“Bradshaw, hey.” Fritz grabs him by the shoulder. “You didn’t know, bro, none of us knew.” Never mind that his _own_ guilt is making his stomach cramp. He can only imagine how Bradley feels right now. “It’s okay.”

“You were trying to tell me and I didn’t even listen—”

“It’s not your fault,” Phoenix says firmly, and puts her hand on Bradley’s available shoulder. She comes around to crouch next to him, and she gently takes hold of his chin to keep his gaze on her. “All that matters now is getting Captain Mitchell to the infirmary so he can start feeling better. So no beating yourself up for something that’s not your fault. You hear me, Lieutenant?”

Bradley’s throat bobs. “I hear you.”

Fritz is feeling some kind of way about what’s unfolding in front of him, but Bob comes bursting into the room with a crowd of medical personnel, and Fritz promptly leaps out of their way. Bradley’s got his hand clamped over his mouth and looks a little like he’s going to be sick; Fritz drags over the little trash can under Captain Mitchell’s desk just in case.

Eventually, it’s decided that Captain Mitchell needs more treatment than Fallon’s outpatient clinic can provide, and Fritz, Phoenix, Bradley, Bob, and the rest of the students who’d been summoned by the commotion all follow Captain Mitchell’s gurney outside like a bunch of ducklings. Warlock’s arguing with Cyclone about cancelling classes for the day, and Bradley climbs up into the ambulance to be with Captain Mitchell — though he grabs Fritz’s hand at the last second. “Uncle Mav’s phone is still in his office,” he says hurriedly. “He’s got a sitter for the cats — you’ve gotta text her and tell her to watch them for longer.”

“You’ve got it,” Fritz says, while thinking _so_ that’s _who the MiGs are._ “We’ll be there in a bit.”

* * *

“I can’t believe he doesn’t have a password on his phone.”

“Lucky us,” Phoenix says, continuing to swipe through Captain Mitchell’s phone. None of his apps are in the standard place — as near as Fritz can figure, they’re all organized by how much Captain Mitchell uses them, in reverse order — and Fritz glimpses Candy Crush, Words With Friends, Comet Racer, and Pokemon Go before Phoenix finally finds the iMessage app. “Think this one is the right one?”

“Anyone whose name is ‘CATherine’ in his phone has to be the cat-sitter,” Fritz says. Phoenix fires off a quick text with an explanation of Captain Mitchell’s condition, while Fritz peers over her shoulder and awwws at the picture of the black cats cuddling together in a beam of sunlight. “Which one do you think is the MiG?”

“Uh, all of them, looks like,” Phoenix says, absentmindedly texting the cat-sitter back to thank her. She turns off the phone, only for Fritz to swipe it out of her hand and open it again. “What are you doing?”

Fritz opens the contacts app and swipes up, stopping on Admiral Kazansky’s name — or rather the name Ice Ice Baby Kazansky, right under the name Hot Stuff Kazansky. He clicks on the contact information, revealing nothing but the phone number and a picture of…a tiny plant with a pair of Ray-Bans wrapped around the pot. 

He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it definitely isn’t this.

Phoenix frowns, tilts her head. “Is that a succulent?”

“I think it’s supposed to be Admiral Kazansky.”

“...Why?”

Fritz shrugs one shoulder. He swipes his thumb across the screen to close out of the contact info page, and accidentally hits call instead.

“Fuck!”

“Hang up, Mendoza, hang up—”

_“I am hanging up—”_

The call icons disappear, replaced by the home screen (a picture of the sun setting over the ocean). Fritz and Phoenix relax for exactly five seconds before the phone starts vibrating in Fritz’s hand. Ice Ice Baby is calling them back.

“Fuck! Fuck, what do we do, what do we—”

“You have to hang up again—”

“Then he’ll _call_ again, Phoenix—”

“Then answer the phone!”

Fritz tosses the phone at her like they’re playing hot potato. _“You_ answer the phone!”

“No, _you_ answer the phone!”

“No, _you—”_

The phone call ends. A split second later, it vibrates again in his hand, and Fritz curses and taps the green icon, gingerly bringing the phone to his ear. “Mmhmm?”

“Hello to you too,” Vice Admiral Thomas James ‘Iceman’ Kazansky says dryly, with no small hint of fondness. Fritz makes a very undignified yelp that he tries to pass off a cough. “You better not be calling me in the middle of class, Mitchell. You’re supposed to be setting a good example.”

Fritz opens his mouth to answer, but no sound comes out.

“Mav? You still there?”

Phoenix yanks the phone out of Fritz’s hand and puts it on speaker. “Um.” She falters, clears her throat. It’s the first time Fritz has ever seen her look unconfident about anything; she looks awkward. Frightened. “A-Admiral Kazansky?”

Admiral Kazansky’s voice is noticeably icier when he speaks again. “Who’s this?”

“Phoenix — Lieutenant Valdez, sir. I...I’m one of your husband’s students, at TOPGUN.” Fritz is sweating profusely just looking at her. “We — uh, Lieutenant Mendoza and I got your number off Captain Mitchell’s phone. They just took him to the hospital—”

“What the hell? What — is he alright?”

“Yes sir. I mean — w-well, no, not exactly. Um. He’s sick, we found him asleep at his desk.” Admiral Kazansky swears, and Phoenix presses on valiantly. “And we knew you were in DC until this weekend but we thought we’d…um, that we’d let you know, and—”

“I’ll be on the next flight. Tell him I’ll be there soon.” The line goes dead.

“Well,” Fritz says at last. “That went well.”

* * *

Warlock has his way: all classes are cancelled for the rest of the day. Fritz hears from Bob that Cyclone is livid about it, but it’s not like they’ll be able to conduct classes with every student in the hospital waiting for news on Captain Mitchell’s condition. It feels like someone hit mute on a Jaguars tailgate party; everyone is crowded together, milling around, but no one dares speak above a whisper. The hospital won’t release information about Captain Mitchell’s condition until Captain Mitchell’s emergency contact gets here, so right now all they can do is wait. By five o’clock, Fritz can’t stand the antiseptic smell of the waiting room any longer, so he disappears with Bradley for half an hour to buy pizza for everyone. He figures Bradley could use the distraction more than anyone.

When they get back, laden with enough pizza to feed the entirety of TIAA Bank Field, Bradley stops long enough to drop his armful of boxes on his empty chair before making a beeline for the older man standing by the receptionist’s desk, gripping the wood tight enough that Fritz is kind of impressed it hasn’t cracked from the pressure. Fritz figures Bradley wants to offer the man food while he waits — Bradley’s Southern politeness kicks in hard at the weirdest times — so Fritz follows dutifully with a box of cheese pizza tucked under his arm. Can’t go wrong with the classics.

“I got here as soon as I could,” the man is telling Bradley. His blond hair is spiked up at the front with either hair gel or good luck, and he keeps twisting a gold ballpoint pen over his fingers, back and forth, back and forth. “They’re waiting on the results of the blood tests now, but they’re pretty sure it’s not pneumonia. Just a bad cold.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Bradley agrees, looking relieved. 

Unsure of what exactly he’s supposed to be doing — and why exactly Bradley looks so relieved — Fritz hefts the pizza box higher so Tall Blond and Handsome can see. “Hey, bro,” he says genially, and claps him on the shoulder. “You want a slice? Might take your mind off things.”

Tall Blond and Handsome stares at Fritz like he just climbed out of a swamp. Bradley presses his lips together until they almost disappear under his mustache. “Vice Admiral Kazansky,” he says at last, and Fritz’s eyebrows — inching slowly up his forehead as if to say _what’s his problem?_ — freeze where they are. “Meet Lieutenant Mendoza. Fritz, Uncle Ice.”

All of the color drains from Fritz’s face at once.

Slowly, he takes in the blond hair, the aviator sunglasses resting on his head, the sharp blue eyes, the golden wedding band on his left hand and the dress blues with more bars on the chest than on the Las Vegas Strip. Too late, Fritz realizes he’s still got his hand on Admiral Kazansky’s shoulder, and immediately retracts it like he’s been burned. His entire body feels hot and cold at the same time, and his left arm is tingling. Maybe _this_ is what it feels like to have a heart attack.

Admiral Kazansky clears his throat, though Fritz can barely hear it over his heart’s attempts to use itself as a battering ram against his ribcage. “It’s good to finally put a face to the name, Lieutenant Mendoza.”

 _That’s what Captain Mitchell said too,_ Fritz wants to say, and _I was part of the Fist of the Fleet too, sir, I still have the patch in my scrapbook, it’s just like yours, wanna see,_ and also _how do you get your hair to stay up like that,_ and it all mixes up into an alphabet soup jumble of compliments and overeager questions until what comes out is a _way_ too excited, “You look just like your picture, sir!”

Admiral Kazansky’s eyebrows rise. “My picture?”

“The one in Captain Mitchell’s…” Fritz’s voice cuts off as suddenly as if someone had clapped their hand over his mouth. Because Captain Mitchell has his husband saved in his phone as Ice Ice Baby Kazansky with a photo of a succulent wearing sunglasses, and — judging by the look on Admiral Kazansky’s face — Admiral Kazansky knows this all too well.

This isn’t how any of this is supposed to go. He had a plan — okay, maybe more of dreams and wishes held together with spit and duct tape, but still. He and Bradley were going to show up at TOPGUN, blow everyone else out of the water, and Admiral Kazansky and Captain Mitchell would take notice of them, mentor them. Mentor _him._ Teach him the tricks of the trade that belong to the best of the best. Swap stories about VFA-25 and their other assignments. Tell him what it’s really like to fly combat. Be the father figures and mentors he never had.

And now Captain Mitchell’s in the hospital, and Admiral Kazansky’s looking at him like he’s an idiot, and the only thing Fritz has done in the last three weeks to advance a potential mentorship is teach Captain Mitchell memes and compare Admiral Kazansky to a succulent. 

Maybe he can pack it in and become a truck driver.

“Admiral Kazansky?”

The three of them turn to see a woman in blue scrubs standing on the other side of the receptionist’s desk, smiling warmly. “Your husband’s ready for you now, sir.”

Admiral Kazansky doesn’t need to be told twice. He claps Bradley on the shoulder and nods politely at Fritz before following her down the hall.

While his soul floats above his body and begins outlining his will, Fritz wordlessly tucks the pizza box back under his arm, walks into the private bathroom, and locks the door behind him.

* * *

“Fritzie, how long are you going to stay in there?”

Fritz shoves another piece of pizza in his mouth so he won’t have to answer. He senses _until Admiral Kazansky falls down a flight of stairs, gets retrograde amnesia and forgets he ever met me_ isn’t going to be an appropriate answer.

“Come on,” Bradley coaxes. “It wasn’t _that_ bad.”

Fritz buries his face into a wad of toilet paper and wails. “I told my hero he looked like a plant!”

There’s a long pause. Fritz can hear Phoenix whispering part of an explanation. “Well,” Bradley says at last. “In your defense, he kind of does.”

_“That doesn’t make it better!”_

“I agree with your friend,” says a voice that Fritz doesn’t recognize. “Now settle the rest of this on _The View_ and let me pee.”

Bradley ignores them. “Look, Uncle Ice is just worried about Uncle Mav, that’s all. He’ll have forgotten the whole thing by tomorrow. And once he sees us fly, all he’ll think is that you’re a hell of a good WSO. But you gotta come out of there for any of that to happen.”

Fritz considers this for a few moments. Finally, he gets to his feet and opens the door. The crowd waiting for him in the hall consists of Warlock, Commander Coleman, all of the students, and a group of civilians leaning against the wall with their legs crossed tightly. They all break into a round of applause, and a tall redheaded man shoves past Fritz into the bathroom. He opens the door five seconds later and hands him the pizza box before slamming the door shut right in his face.

“Visiting hours’ll be over any minute.” Bradley puts an arm around Fritz’s waist. “Buy you a drink?”

“A stiff one.” Fritz nods, a little exhausted and a lot embarrassed. He passes the pizza box to Hangman, who accepts it like it’s a used Kleenex. “Make that two.”

* * *

Fritz doesn’t get to see Captain Mitchell again until Wednesday — then again, none of them get to. Warlock and Commander Coleman keep them busy in the air and on the ground, while Cyclone acts like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs. According to Lieutenant Navy of the Navy, Cyclone and Admiral Kazansky had had _words_ when he’d come to visit Captain Mitchell in the hospital with Warlock on Tuesday. Honestly, Fritz is impressed Cyclone is still alive at all.

Phoenix insists on buying some flowers for him (“Suck-up,” Bradley had teased, before dodging a kick to the shin), but they get held up at the receptionist’s desk because of possible risk of infection. The _Get Well Soon!_ balloons and Bob’s crocheted teddy bear pass inspection, and soon the four of them are off. Fanboy and Payback had been in an hour earlier, and said that Captain Mitchell had been asleep and Admiral Kazansky had been nowhere to be seen.

Luckily — or maybe unluckily — Captain Mitchell is awake, probably coherent for the first time in two days, and Admiral Kazansky is right by his side, leaning forward in a plasticky-looking chair with a fuzzy orange blanket slung over the back. Captain Mitchell’s voice is a little raspy when he speaks. “What day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

“Wednesday.” Captain Mitchell thinks that over. “You came back early?”

Admiral Kazansky brushes Captain Mitchell’s hair back, the motion slow and soothing. Fritz feels like he’s watching a Lifetime movie. “Your stupid plant picture summoned me here, Mitchell.”

Captain Mitchell laughs, then winces slightly. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Told you it looked like you, Kazansky.”

Fritz feels vindicated. Bradley takes that as his cue to knock on the half-open door, and Admiral Kazansky’s smile becomes more reserved when he takes in the four of them standing awkwardly in the hall. “Lieutenants.”

“Hey guys,” Captain Mitchell says, sounding pleased. “Come on in.”

Bob places the teddy bear carefully on the stand at the foot of the bed, which already boasts some cards from the other students, and Phoenix keeps a tight hold on the balloons, her gaze flickering between Admiral Kazansky and Captain Mitchell. It’s good to know Fritz isn’t the only one who’s starstruck around here. Bradley walks up to Captain Mitchell’s side, grinning at him. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fine,” Captain Mitchell says promptly. At Admiral Kazansky’s raised eyebrows, he relents, and his own grin dims a little. “Better. I should be out of here by tonight.”

“We’re glad to hear it, sir,” Bob says, and adjusts the tiny golden wings pin on the teddy bear’s lapel. Fritz had tried to convince him to knit five tiny bears for the cats to play with, but his suggestion had been shot down.

Captain Mitchell nods at his husband. “Admiral Kazansky, meet the firm of Valdez, Mendoza, and Floyd.” Then, amending, "Phoenix, Fritz, and Bob."

“We’ve met,” Admiral Kazansky says, and Fritz is about to collapse to his knees and beg forgiveness for his sins when Admiral Kazansky continues. “Lieutenant Valdez and Lieutenant Mendoza called me before the hospital could.”

Captain Mitchell raises his eyebrows, and casually stifles a yawn in the hand that isn’t resting under Admiral Kazansky’s. “Efficient.”

Phoenix, Bob, and Bradley don’t look like they’ve noticed, but Fritz did. He remembers the months his Ma had been in the hospital after she tore her ACL; it may have been a while, but he’s still good at making himself scarce in the name of rest. “We’ll let you catch up on some rest, sir,” he says brightly. “Commander Coleman said he’d be by later to fill you in on what you’ve missed.”

Captain Mitchell perks up a little. “Did his wife have the baby yet?”

“Not yet, sir,” says Lieutenant Navy of the Navy, right on cue. “Any day now.”

Bradley claps Captain Mitchell gently on the shoulder, and accepts his high five. Phoenix and Bob salute, and Fritz (after nodding politely at Captain Mitchell and avoiding eye contact with Admiral Kazansky) makes his exit at speeds he didn’t know his body was capable of.

“See,” Bradley says in an undertone as the four of them make their way down the near-empty hallway. “Told you he’d forget all about it, Fritzie.”

They’re almost to the lobby when the call comes. “Lieutenant!”

All four of them turn around to see Admiral Kazansky striding toward them, doctors and nurses parting for him like the Red Sea. Phoenix and Bob automatically stand at attention. Fritz attempts to do the same, and wonders if that cramping sensation in his gut is actually just his organs starting to shut down.

They wait with bated breath (and in Fritz’s case, minor heart palpitations) for Admiral Kazansky to catch up to them, at which point he says, point blank, “I’d like to thank you for what you did for Captain Mitchell.”

Bradley opens his mouth to protest, but Admiral Kazansky cuts him off.

“I appreciate that you were there for him.” Fritz hears the unspoken _when I couldn’t be_ loud and clear. “And…” Then Admiral Kazansky’s gaze lands on Phoenix, Bob, and Fritz, and a crooked little smile appears at the corner of his mouth. “I look forward to seeing you all in the air next week.”

“Thank you, sir,” Fritz manages to choke out. The others echo assent.

Admiral Kazansky makes to turn around, before he suddenly stops and looks at Fritz, tilts his head to the left. “Are you the one who taught my husband about those meme video compilations?”

“They’re called Vines, sir,” Fritz says without thinking, managing to feel a little offended — it’s not like he taught Captain Mitchell about _TikTok,_ God fucking forbid, he’s got _some_ standards — before the terror sets in. “Uh. I mean, yes Admiral sir, that was me. Sir.” _Please don’t kill me._

Admiral Kazansky snorts. “Well,” he says, wry. “That’d explain why he thinks avocados going on sale counts as tea. Thank you for that, Lieutenant.”

“Uh.” Even Fritz’s eyelashes are sweating. “You’re welcome?”

In response, Admiral Kazansky nods at the four of them before walking back to his husband’s room. Fritz starts to feel like he can breathe again. His hero is looking forward to seeing him (all of them) fly. His hero talked to him and didn’t mention plants once. His hero knows that he introduced Captain Mitchell to Vine. His hero _knows_ him.

_Did that just happen?_

“Told you he wouldn’t be mad,” Bradley says, as Phoenix and Bob set off ahead of them. “I think he might even like you.”

Fritz practically has stars in his eyes. _“Really?”_

(And if that’s true, he thinks, then maybe, just maybe, he can get some use out of the Please Mentor Me Admiral Kazansky binder that’s shoved under his pillow after all.)

“Yeah, really. Maybe that'll help us win the plaque and the succulent.”

Fritz comes to an abrupt halt. Phoenix and Bob, five feet ahead of them, do the same. “The what?”

“The succulent,” Bradley says, like it’d been obvious. A sly smile twitches at his mouth. “Uncle Mav has a whole bunch. He gives them away to the winners with the plaque. Did I not mention that?”

Phoenix’s eyes have the gleam of a woman who is willing to burn countries to the ground and outfly whoever it takes if it means getting her hands on that plant. And despite the residual trauma still in his system from his _last_ experience with a succulent, Fritz grins at Bradley, and then at Phoenix, who winks.

 _Hell yeah,_ he thinks, and does a mental fistpump. _Let the_ real _competition begin._


End file.
